Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

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СКАЧАТЬ meant when, without breaking the spell, she murmured, ‘“I am that living and fiery essence of the divine substance that glows in the beauty of the fields. I shine in the water. I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars.”’ The unfamiliar words thrilled through him with something that felt like recognition; he’d never understood how God could be light until he’d come to stand in this space, staring up, hearing what felt like the music of the spheres. He was beginning to understand how his new acquaintance’s mind worked, too, well enough, at least, to know that she’d also murmur straight afterwards, ‘St Hildegard wrote that,’ and put her hand on his arm, before he had a chance to ask who St Hildegard had been (but he could ask later). He could tell she’d nudge him quickly back to the street, where the light was just light, and not poetry and prayer and honey and song spun together, but, even if it no longer made him feel he could float into the heavens, it was still beautiful light, and the sun was warm on his back.

      ‘They call Paris the mother of liberal arts and letters,’ Christine said breathlessly, in her deep, throaty, musical voice with its rolling southern r’s. She walked quickly and easily, propelling her lean little body so expertly over the dirt so that her feet didn’t seem to touch the ground. Owain liked the respect in her voice. ‘Equal to ancient Athens,’ he added. He was just repeating a chance remark he’d heard somewhere; but he felt proud when she turned to him in surprise, and rewarded him with a glowing smile.

      ‘The other colours you dilute in water, with gum … pine gum or fir gum,’ Anastaise said, her voice flat and concentrating, watching the thick liquid hover before dropping into the little vessel. ‘It’s only these two – the red and white lead – that you mix with egg white. Minium, the red one’s called. The white is ceruse.’

      They’d found her fumbling with the bolts at the courtyard gate when they got back to Christine’s home in Old Temple Street, Owain loaded up with Christine’s purchases – parchment scrolls and a cloth-wrapped package they’d stopped to pick up from a tiny, bent-over goldsmith in a workshop filled with slanting sunlight and glittering dust, one of several workshops they’d dropped in at. She’d looked up in relief as they’d walked up. ‘I can’t open it,’ she’d said, without preliminaries, and nodded down at herself. Owain realised why: she was trying to do the bolts with one hand. The other big raw hand was nursing a bunch of wilting blue cornflowers, wrapped in muslin.

      Anastaise was a big, blowsy woman in her middle years, who towered over Christine. She had a bold look in her eye and a ready tongue, and a rude good humour shining on her reddish cheeks; but she and the fine-drawn, high-minded Madame de Pizan were clearly on the best of terms. ‘They say Paris is the centre of the world of illuminations,’ Christine told Owain proudly, as they walked inside and put their packages down on the scriptorium table, ‘and you’ve met some of the finest illuminators and miniaturists in the world today; but, whatever you hear anywhere else, Anastaise is the greatest of them all.’

      ‘Ahhh – get along with you,’ Anastaise replied roughly, but Owain could see her colour up, redder than before; and he caught her smiling to herself as she tucked her greasy pepper-and-salt hair back inside her kerchief.

      He stayed in the room, hovering, unwilling to go and miss finding out how this queen of illuminators worked, but uncertain what to do with himself as Anastaise got to work and Christine opened the big ledger in the corner to enter her purchases. He whistled under his breath and tried to be inconspicuous, and watched. He was going over in his mind their brief stop at the illuminators’ table on the way out of the busy scriptorium in central Paris, where Christine had bought the parchment scrolls. The little man in there, wearing a splodged apron, almost a hunchback, with piercing pale eyes under a bare head, only a few wisps of baby hair still wafting out of its freckles, had caught the newcomer trying to see what he was drawing.

      ‘You want to see, don’t you?’ asked the little man, whom Owain now knew was Jean Malouel (until last year the head painter to the Duke of Burgundy). And he’d scuttled off, sideways, like a crab, Owain thought, to the shelves and tables at the back of the room, where unattended pieces of parchment were laid out, weighed down with stones and pots – which Owain guessed must be uncompleted work at different stages, drying, waiting for the next coat of colour, or just to be bound.

      ‘Here,’ Malouel said finally, ‘no one is supposed to see this; but you’ve got no one here to tell, have you?’ He beckoned Owain over. There was a pleased, expectant grin on his face.

      The little square was a jewel: so bright and vividly alive that Owain gasped. He’d never seen anything like this. It was almost like reality. No, it was better than reality: more perfect than anything he’d ever have thought it possible to imagine. The world writ small; but with its everyday flaws and dirt and minor uglinesses painted out. He could see at once that it showed the Royal Palace he’d just walked past outside, though from an angle he didn’t yet know. He recognised the blond walls, the gatehouse at the western tip of the Island, and the blue-green roofs, with tall round cones topping the towers, mostly in the same almost turquoise blue as the roofs, but a few marked out in a red as rich as rubies. The delicate tracery of the Holy Chapel tower, with its rose window and fingers of stone rising to the heavens, topped by a gleaming golden cross. The river, lapping against the green by the shore, with a boat and a blue-coated boatman approaching the steps of the gatehouse. The glory of daylight and sunshine. His eyes dwelt greedily on the paler greens of the picture’s foreground – the Left Bank, showing early summer grass and sprouting vines, with each tiny tendril somehow got down separately, and three bare-legged labourers, one in blue, one in white, one in red, backs bowed with effort, reaping their corn, swinging their scythes and sweating in their field, under their straw hats. But it was the blue of the sky that truly caught Owain’s imagination. It deepened, from a pale, delicate near-white behind the rooftops, through a thousand peaceful shades, to the deep, near-night colour of the summer heaven at its heights. How had the artist done that, he wondered; bending down; peering closer; not quite daring to touch. How could anyone but God have so effortlessly imitated the Creator’s design?

      Malouel had met Owain’s eye; bashful and welcoming, both at once. Sagely, he’d said: ‘That’s June, that one. My three nephews are doing it – it’s good work. You can see that, can’t you? … But what you don’t know yet is that now you’ve seen it, you’ll see the June outside differently from now on. It changes your eye forever, seeing something as good as this. You mark my words.’

      Owain remembered that now, as he edged closer to where Anastaise was beginning to lay out careful brushstrokes of whitish paint on her own small, empty square drawn on a leaf of parchment covered in neatly sloping writing. There was another blank – a margin – around the edge of the page. She’d already told him the cornflowers she’d harvested that morning, at dewfall, from the garden of the Beguine convent by the Hotel Saint-Paul, where she was a lay sister, were the ingredient that gave the azure blue of the sky that had so mesmerised him while he was looking at the Limbourg brothers’ picture of June. And he wanted to see her make that.

      Quietly, from the other side of the room, from above her ledgers, Christine watched Owain inch forward as Anastaise pulled the heads off the cornflowers, ground them with mortar and pestle until there was nothing but a slimy blue juice in the bottom, and dipped her paintbrush into it. She let herself enjoy the pleasure that the boy’s intent gaze brought her. It was so long since she’d seen innocence this childlike. It made her feel young.

      ‘There, you see,’ Anastaise said contemplatively. Owain didn’t jump; but he realised she was talking to him, holding out the square to him, and he was grateful. She’d filled the page with wet, gleaming blue the colour of the sky. ‘That’s the first layer,’ she went on. ‘It’s not how it’s going to look in the end, though. To get the colour the way you want, you need to paint over it – four or five layers, one by one.’

      ‘What will you paint on top of the blue?’ Owain asked, but she only rumbled with laughter. ‘Listen СКАЧАТЬ